


The One Constant

by zombolouge



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: I wrote pretty words that aren't really a story so much as a preponderance, Tea Drinking, comforted by the Wild Mother, existential pondering, flavored tea, it's short and existential, references to unknown dead people, tbh I have no idea what to tag this, thinkin bout death and stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21698413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombolouge/pseuds/zombolouge
Summary: In which Caduceus drinks tea and awaits fate.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	The One Constant

They often said that death was the one equalizer. That death came for them all in the end, and all found the same end in death. He’d read enough to know that was not always true. There were many variables in the way that something ended, and not all of them could rightly be called death without insulting the idea of life. That didn’t mean anything got to continue forever, as everything certainly had an _end_. It was the lines of where life started and death ended that could be blurred, mutating into something else, sometimes by the will of those trying to cheat their own final chapter. This didn’t prevent their end, but it proved that death was not so constant as many believed.

Caduceus lifted his cup, sipping the tea just as the steam wafting over the top sapped enough warmth from the steep to make it the perfect temperature. This one had been grown atop the grave of a woman that had come to them with no name. He recalled his family performing the rights and burying her when he was young, the flesh of her face already decayed beneath a halo of red hair that remained bright while her cheeks had gone sallow. They’d not offered a name for her. Her grave carried an unmarked, unshaped stone. The tea carried hints of spice. He’d added that afterward, as he had dried the leaves and packaged them into the cupboard, a stick of cinnamon and tuile of sticky orange that reminded him of her hair. The tea, too, had no name, but the flavor remained on the tongue all the same. 

The only thing that seemed constant to him was time. Things lived and died, rose and were struck down, grew and withered. Life seemed to move in cycles, chasing the patterns of the seasons in birth, fruitfulness, and demise, random in sequence but constant in order. One seed would flourish while another drowned in a storm, another still stricken in drought. The structures of power shifted to accommodate new names, the balance teetering in one direction or another before a newer name replaced the old one and tipped the scales. It would, inevitably, repeat in similar ways. Time was the one thing that continued on, ceaseless and uncaring of what they did with it, how they lost it, or which pieces of it they came to regret.

He hovered his hand over the corpse before him, the stench of the decay lessened now that he’d filled his nostrils with the steam of the tea. The empty eyes in the lifeless skull stared at him without feeling or rebuke. This one, too, had no name. Caduceus could not offer one, either. Only purpose.

The Wild Mother could be felt in his tingling palm, and he imagined if the corpse could still feel, it would detect the warmth and love she bore for its form. Blooms of fungus sprouted from the most fertile points in the body, mushrooms curling upward and stretching to mirror the positions of his fingers. Death begot growth, growth would beget fruitfulness, and then all would beget decay once more to begin the cycle anew. He could feel the mother smile, pleased at the potential. All in good time.

This corpse had no hair, but soft patches of mold sprouted on the skull to mimic the feature. None of them were red, his nostalgia noted, longing to find repeating patterns relevant to his past. Instead the mildew took on the hues of muddied watercolors, blues and greens smearing into grey and black. He sipped his tea, dropping his concentration and letting nature take its course. The body was Hers now, to be used as She saw fit. The Wild Mother knew what to do with death, knew how to keep it fueling life, perpetuating the cycle to fill the time. The Raven Queen had seen to her part, and now nature got hers. 

They all strived to fill the time with something fruitful. The Wild Mother gave purpose to his time, and his tasks would ensure that much death would in turn bear fruit for the next cycle. He sipped at the tea again, tasting the citrus zest as it coated the back of his throat. He walked from the corpse, following the pathways through the cemetery without looking at his feet, his muscles knowing the path in the twilight far better than his eyes would. The leaves above gossiped with one another, their whispers giving rhythms for the fireflies to dance to. It would be a peaceful night in what was left of the woods.

As it always did, thinking of the state of the woods sent a pang of fretful energy across his chest. He frowned, letting his head dip low so that his hair was a waterfall of petal-pink waves, hiding his gaze. He hid from no one in particular, knowing the house and the woods and the very world seemed to be empty. He was alone with his thoughts, and it had been a long time since he’d shared the burden of them with anyone. His throat ached to give them voice even as he feared such a thing.

His hope at someone returning on their own had died slowly. He’d watched the roads, marking the march of time by the overgrowth that crowded the pathways, but no one from his family had returned. He’d given it time, as that seemed to be what he held the most of, but it was unlike death, and the Wild Mother’s magic did not seem to touch it the same way. No matter how much time he gave, it never seemed to bear fruit. The moments took themselves away but offered no rich soil for anything to grow their absence. The time was just gone.

The worry stretched across him like a cat in a summer windowsill. He hid it with his hair as though he could hide it from himself, letting the anxiety wither like an unloved sapling. What cycle did fretfulness lead to? When nervousness died, did it give purchase to courage or apathy? Would all this time show him to have accomplished anything? Or would the moments be remembered without name, settling into an unmarked grave with no one to recall the color of the hair on the corpse below. 

The vision of a forge flashed in the back of his mind, the dream’s orange glow haunting him like the notes of orange in his bitter tea. His pulse quickened of its own accord, the desire to lift his feet and run making his muscles twitch. Run to where? Run to whom?

 _When_ should he run?

The timing was everything. He knew this much. Time was what allowed all the cycles to repeat. There could be no change without time to measure it. There could be no death without marking the difference in moments, where one heartbeat stopped, and another did not begin. Time was what ruled them all, and so the most important factor in any endeavor was not what, not how, not whom, but when. When to start, when to stop. When all the variables aligned to make the impossible possible, the failures a success, the truth visible to those that must see.

He’d resolved himself to wait for the signal. In time, he knew, he would see something, and he would know the moment had come. He would leave and search for his family. He would solve the mystery of what encroached on his home. He would follow the promises of the Wild Mother with all faith and studiousness. It was _his_ task, though, and that knowledge ate away at his usually limitless patience, the urgency of the matter arguing with the pace of the days. Still, he knew. He knew the timing had to be right, or else time would take the task away and carry it down the years to someone else. Or no one at all.

He lifted his gaze, peering at the fresh-faced stars that dotted the heavens. The cycles would continue either way, but that wasn’t the point. A nihilist would think that, if everything was part of a cycle, then nothing mattered. That it would all come back around no matter what course of action was taken. It was, in a manner of speaking, true, but that was a lazy path of logic. The purpose, he felt, was to limit unnecessary suffering. To do good as much and as often as possible, even if time would wash it all away in some form. That was how you left your mark on time. That was how you furthered the grand purpose of existence. Whether they were working with or against time remained to be seen, but the point had to be to make _this_ cycle, and perhaps every cycle after, full of that much more good. To prevent as much suffering as possible. That was the purpose of existing. One could not defeat an end, nor should they, but they could ease the passing or limit its grip on others.

He could not convince himself it would do the world good to lose these woods, to erase the remnants of his family, even if it seemed such a natural progression that tainted the forest. The shift in power. Perhaps it was a selfish failing of his own heart, but his moral compass told him that it was a problem that needed fixing. That there was imminent danger that must be thwarted, or else much suffering would afflict this cycle. Suffering that could have been delayed or prevented. Suffering that could have been good instead, if only they had acted in the right ways at the right times.

The branches above his eyes swayed, the stars blurring into the black of night until all he saw was indistinct grey. Did he waste his time by waiting? If he had some task before him, was it not best to get it over with? His instincts warred with one another, wanting to be fruitful and useful while knowing that planting the seeds in the wrong season would do him no good. He wished that he knew with more certainty that he was doing it right. The waiting, the reading of the signs, the sensing of his purpose. He wished that he could ask the stars for the answers.

_Am I wasting my time?_

A breeze of fresh summer air fluttered across his shoulders. He closed his eyes, feeling the Wild Mother’s embrace as surely as if she were there. The anxiety eased, his calm returning as he breathed sense back into his lungs. There was no knowing what would come, or when it would arrive. That was the nature of faith. He could do nothing but believe in his purpose and himself. To believe that he would recognize the time when it arrived.

He finished the tea, tasting the flavors and the time that had gone into it. Feeling the lost seconds in the chill of the cup in his hand. He would solve this mystery. He would complete his task. There had been many moments he’d let pass by, carried into the past where others might remember them used more fondly. He had not needed that time. The time he needed would arrive, and he had faith he would know when. He glanced back up at the sky, counting the stars like seconds, watching them burn brightly in their own way, just where they needed to be to do so.

When would his name be called to action? He had all the guidance he needed, and all the faith to trust it. He would not be given irrefutable knowledge until the moment arrived, but that was okay. He could wait, and he could believe. The Wild Mother would help him stay true to the path.

When would the time come? The answer drifted on shuddering wind, kissing the treetops and enveloping his shoulders, thick and warm.

 _Soon_.

**Author's Note:**

> This got way more meta than I ever intended. It's like, layers about death and time and a backup character made and waiting to be used. OOPS APPARENTLY I HAD SOME FEELINGS AND THEY ALL CAME OUT. Anyways, hopefully someone else finds this as enjoyable to read as I found it to write. <3
> 
> Updating to add: I never remember to plug myself haha BUT if you enjoyed this, I have a whole library of other work (fanfic and original). You can access excerpts and links to the full works on my website, zombarber dot com. Thank you for reading!


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